


First Impressions

by kriadydragon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team's first mission with Ronon. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Impressions

“So is this how you guys train?” Ronon asked, tilting the game controller and mashing the buttons with the ferocity of someone who thought it would actually accomplish something.

John winced, both in sympathy for the control and out of fear of Ronon's overzealous handling snapping it in two. On screen, Ronon's guy was getting his ass handed to him, but his less-than-kind treatment of the control was, so far, the only indication that it bothered him.

“The military has been known to use video games for simulation purposes,” John said, doing pretty much what Ronon was doing minus the button abuse. “Let the new guys know what they'll be up against, help them sharpen their strategic skills – that kind of thing.”

“But it's not the only way you train.”

“Course not. We train all kinds of ways. On the ground, in the air, on the sea...” Though the more John talked, the more he felt like the only progress he was making was to shove his own foot deeper into his mouth. The guy had been on Atlantis a grand total of two weeks, with no real inclination to leave since he had nowhere else to go. Yet in all that time, in all of John's attempts to get to know him, John still didn't know anymore about the guy than he did when they'd first met. Yes, John knew he came from a world more advanced than most in Pegasus. Yes, he knew Ronon was former military. And, yes, he knew that Ronon was still acclimating to living a life no longer on the run. And it wasn't like John expected long hours of idle chitchat. But two weeks should have been more than enough for Ronon to feel comfortable enough to get past one-worded answers.

But Ronon was asking questions. That had to be something, right?

“So you play these games for fun?” was Ronon's next question.

“Yep,” John said, feeling slightly more bolstered. “Having fun yet?”

Ronon grunted, noncommittal, and John's bolster took a nose dive. That was obstacle number two – _rocks_ were more expressive than Ronon was. John had no idea if the guy was stimulated, bored out his skull or thought the game and everything Earthling-related a joke.

And they had a mission in a couple of minutes. A cake walk, quiet and harmless, and a way to see if Ronon clicked with the team. But John couldn't help feeling like Ronon was the one who would determine if the team clicked with _him_. It made for a rather bad reminder of John's Middle School years; of trying so hard _not_ to be pathetic while trying to impress the kid he wanted to be friends with that he ended up looking pathetic, anyway.

Except John wasn't trying to make friends with Ronon. Okay, he was, but above that he was just trying to make the guy feel welcome, comfortable, to give him a reason to stick around and help them out. And if Ronon decided he wanted to help out on another team, it would suck, but in the end it would be fine.

John was really hoping he didn't want to help out on another team.

“Give it time, you'll get the hang of it,” John said. _Hopefully with the game controller still intact_ , he thought.

John's watched beeped, the controller saved by the swiftly flying passage of time. He hit pause, causing Ronon's head to twitch back in what might have been mild alarm, or mild annoyance, John couldn't tell.

“And that's exactly one hour Telby and the scientists are overdue. Again. Mission time,” John said, glancing at his watch that read three thirty pm. “Thank goodness for small favors that it'll still be daylight. No worries about scary monsters hunting us down.”

“Oh,” Ronon said, neutral, but tossed the controller aside and launched to his feet like a kid about to head off to Disney Land. Or a kid bolting at the end-of-the-day school bell.

John sighed, and with a slump in his shoulders, followed Ronon to the locker room.

\-----------------------

“So,” John said quietly, boots crunching the soft white meadow grass. “Have any more enlightening conversations with the new guy?”

Teyla looked at John askance and raised an eyebrow in that amused but knowing way of hers. Ronon had taken their six, far enough behind that any conversation drifting his way would be nothing more than fragmented murmurs. At least John hoped it reached him in fragmented murmurs. The guy had survived seven years running from the Wraith, and that kind of perpetual survival could have heightened Ronon's senses to epic proportions. John knew better than to underestimate anything about him, but he was reaching his wits end with Ronon's lack of verbal participation.

“We have sparred,” Teyla said. She pressed her lips in a tight, uncertain line, then said, “But he is not one for conversation.”

“You've noticed.”

Teyla's smile was understanding. “It is difficult not to.”

“But tell me you at least got more out of him than I did. Know anything about how his military worked? How his world worked?”

“We did have a brief conversation on music. I did most of the talking, but though I do know Ronon enjoys listening to music he has no interest in playing instruments or singing.”

“Well, that's definitely more than me,” John said.

“Give it time. I believe he is still finding his way. I cannot imagine the difficulty involved in making such a transition as he is. He knew only survival for so long. That cannot be a mindset so easily shed.”

Now Sheppard was the one pressing his lips into a line.

“Perhaps this mission will help by providing focus for him,” Teyla said.

John angled his head just enough to see Ronon several feet behind Rodney, who was, as usual, engrossed mostly in his tablet and whatever readings it was giving him. Ronon had eyes only for their surroundings, but the distance and his head partially turned kept John from being able to judge his expression. If he was impressed, awed even, John couldn't tell. But how could he not be? P3X-897 wasn't exactly your standard world of trees, grass and birds. It was much more alien than that, verging almost on the surreal, the white trees tall and twisting with a canopy of pale-green spongy moss rather than leaves, the grass patchworks of pale yellow fading to snowy white and interrupted by islands of tiny rainbow flowers.

But the real kicker was the rock formations scattered throughout the meadow. They didn't look a thing like rocks, they looked like ice, rippling archways of glass rising high above the grass, some joining in jungle-gym configurations that were a sore temptation to climb.

The scientists had christened it some funky Latin name that meant crystal, while the marines went more practical with Crystal Planet (and, unfortunately, John didn't have enough authority to order everyone to _not name things_ ). It wasn't actual crystal, or glass, or (sadly) even diamond, but some new substance that nearly made the geologists and other rock geeks wet themselves in giddy elation. In fact, that was why John and his team were here, to bring home the overly giddy rock geeks who liked to ignore curfew.

Maybe something was wrong, and maybe something wasn't, but Sergeant Telby was just as much a rock geek as the rest of the rock geeks, to the point that he had gone along with the scientists' claims of radio trouble the last time they'd stayed out way past their allotted time.

Geeks and their geeking out. John wondered if this is what it was like to run a preschool. His hope was that by showing up in person bringing threats of KP duty (and lab duty under McKay's supervision), Telby and the geeks would wise up.

The glass/crystal arches glittered like sunlight off waves, and this was only the tip of the iceberg in terms of this world's visual wonders. Several klicks ahead on the other side of a moss-tree forest was the maze, the largest nest of glass formations closest to the gate, a labyrinth of pock-marked walls, archways, pillars, cave entrances and caverns – some of it polished smooth, some of it multi-faceted as diamonds. It was a place easy to get lost in, but so diverse and odd that getting lost would be intentional. John had been to this world five times, three of those times just for the fun of it, and he could never get enough.

It's what he loved about all this intergalactic travel stuff; stepping into strange new worlds that were literally strange, seeing things you only ever read about in sci-fi books, and even things no one could begin to imagine. Even Ronon had to be a little dazzled.

“Any people live here?” Ronon called. He didn't sound dazzled. He didn't sound like anything, not wary, not curious, not even bored.

“We made sure he wasn't a robot, right?” John whispered. Teyla merely smiled and shook her head.

It was Rodney who replied to Ronon's question, to the point as he always was when the answer wasn't of any real scientific interest to him. Though the planet could support human life as far as breathing the air and walking through the grass without kicking up any dangerous spores, it wasn't conducive to long-term living.

“In other words, unless you're looking for more than just a bad case of dysentery, then I highly suggest you don't eat or drink anything other than what's in our packs.”

“Don't forget the dangerous animals,” John said.

“Dangerous animals?” Rodney squeaked.

John rolled his eyes then turned, walking backwards and trusting Teyla to warn him if he was about to trip and land on his ass. “Dangerous nocturnal animals, as in they only come out at night.”

Rodney glared. “I'm aware of the definition of nocturnal, thank you.”

John smirked before facing forward.

“Is that what got your scientist guys?” Ronon asked next. He was being quite talkative today. Maybe John had made some headway with him after all.

“As long as they stayed in the maze they should be fine,” John said loud enough for Ronon to hear. “We had the zoologists spy on the wildlife in cloaked puddlejumpers and they noticed all the prey taking refuge in the formations. The theory is that the rocks either mess up the predators’ sight or hearing. Whatever the reason, you stay in the maze, you'll live.”

They entered the forest of white trunks and pale canopy. The ground was like one big carpet of fallen moss that had turned white and brittle, crunching softly under their boots. It wasn't a wide forest, less than a fourth of a mile before it ended suddenly, halted by the imposing polished wall of the maze, two stories high and the sun hitting it just right to reflect a couple of rainbows onto the ground.

But calling it a maze was an overstatement, with plenty of exits and entrances to choose from. It might take a while, but finding a way out wasn't impossible. In fact, it was a guarantee if you didn't mind some of your pathways being a little... erratic.

Case in point, the nearest entrance was a literal hole in the wall, a tunnel four feet off the ground and just big enough for them to crawl through on all fours without their packs lodging them in place. It was a short crawl, and ten seconds later their feet were firmly planted on glassy ground worn smooth and flat by a millennium of animal traffic. Walking on it felt not unlike walking on a skylight (John knew, a long story that involved boys being boys making stupid dares), slick but the rubbers soles of their boots providing excellent traction.

Although the formation wasn't technically a maze, just looking at all the walls, holes, and the many pathways to choose from was enough to make even someone as non-claustrophobic as John feel a little confined. That was where the markers came in, strips of colored duct tape stuck fast to the slick surface marking the trails. Bright green, John recalled, took you to the nearest exit, while the bright orange would lead them to base camp. Duct tape, handyman and off-world explorer's secret weapon.

Twenty minutes and much griping from Rodney about what was so damn fascinating about glass rocks that emitted no energy later, and they found themselves stepping out of a narrow ravine into a wide, almost round clearing like the surface of a frozen lake. Dominating the center was base camp, a nest of tents, the small clustered around the two large inflatables normally used for alpha sites. At first glance, everything looked normal: foldable tables still upright and still covered in equipment, lawn chairs sitting silently next to the smaller tents, someone's two-way radio on top of a small blue cooler...

“It's quiet,” Ronon said right next to John, making him jump. Damn the guy was quiet. But he was obviously thinking what John was thinking, his hand gripping the butt of his blaster as John's hands gripped his P-90.

There was no guard. Even if the rest of the rock geeks had wandered off to go chip off a few samples of glass, there should have at least been two guards wandering the perimeter.

John tapped his radio. “Sergeant Telby, this is Colonel Sheppard. Please respond.”

Static answered. He tried again. “Sergeant Telby, this is Colonel Sheppard. We've reached base camp and I'm a little disappointed to see a disturbing lack of protocol. In other words, where the hell are your guards? Over.” If there was one thing even Telby couldn't skirt around – and wouldn't even for the sake of pretty glass rocks – it was the most basic of protocol, specifically _protecting the damn area from alien monsters that would want to rip them to shreds_.

“Could be the rocks,” Rodney tried. He circled one finger in the air. “Something about them messing with radio signals?”

John shook his head. “No. They might cause a few hiccups but the disruption isn't that bad.”

Rodney nodded nervously and stated, “So... this is bad.” This was only his second time on this world, his first time spent safely tucked away in a jumper and cut short when the sensors had nothing of real interest (to him) to report.

“Looking that way so far,” John said. He raised his P-90. “Stay sharp. Don't just look but listen. The rocks can mess with your vision.”

He led the way closer to the camp. His team followed, Teyla and Ronon spreading out and Rodney keeping a little ways safely behind.

“Rodney?” John said.

But Rodney shook his head. “Not picking up any life signs. And I _do_ know these rocks don't mess with Ancient technology. So unless we're dealing with another hibernating Wraith,” he shuddered, “then we're alone.”

John looked to Teyla who shook her head. She wasn't sensing any Wraith. Still...

“Let's always assume that the Wraith might not be the only ones who don't show up on an LSD when hibernating,” John said.

Rodney made a sound that might have been a whimper. John couldn't blame him. They moved slowly from tent to tent, each peek through the flaps a lesson in nerves, each sight of an empty interior a brief moment of relief followed by calls of all clear.

“Well, we can happily cross hibernating anything off the list,” John said when they regrouped at the larger two tents. “But too soon to discount Wraith just yet. If Telby and his people were scattered when a culling came and went, it would explain why the place is so neat and tidy.”

“I am not so sure,” said Teyla distractedly. Her eyes continued to wander, to search, and her body followed, prompting the men to take her lead. “Something was strange to me as we searched--” Suddenly, she paused, only to hurry forward. “Look here.”

It was a table covered in a mess of cards and poker chips as though they'd been quickly scooped and dumped.

“Oh, and this,” said Rodney from behind. They turned to see him holding up an iPod, its bright yellow case cracked.

John's stomach clenched and his hands around the P-90 clenched with it. “Okay,” he gritted out. “This is even worse.”

“Who the hell trashes a place only to clean it up?” Rodney asked.

“Exactly. So we're either looking at a kidnapping someone didn't want us to know about or--”

“A trap,” Ronon finished.

John exhaled sharply. “Exactly.

“So, jumper?” Rodney said hopefully.

John nodded, already heading back the way they came. “Hell yes.” But he stopped, staring at the radio on the cooler and the dark black tape wrapped around it, holding the switch down.

Rodney suddenly called out, “Whoa, whoa, we're not alone anymore, guys. _Big_ group heading our way.”

John growled in frustration, “Damn it. Haul ass!” And raised his weapon, walking backwards as he waited for his team to hit the exit, Ronon lingering to take point.

“Rodney, where're they coming from?”

“East... no, wait. They're spreading out. More coming the other way. They're surrounding us!”

“This way!” John said, and bolted ahead, taking the lead, grabbing the LSD from Rodney's hand in passing. Several dots were converging, six in the west, seven coming from the east, spreading gradually out. John cursed under his breath when three of the dots blocked the way out.

The long way it was, then, the north end still clear. But they were coming too fast, the line of people narrowing quickly and about to pinch them in.

Then Ronon bellowed, “They're here!” two seconds before the first volley of rapid-weapon's fire chewed up the walls, stinging them with shards of rock and forcing them to duck.

Ronon was the first back upright and already exchanging fire. The blaster might not have been able to rip things up like whatever the hostiles were using (and John had a bad feeling they were using confiscated Lantean weapons) but the weapon fired fast and those red balls of energy were intimidating, whether set to stun or kill. John heard the grunt of a man going down, and didn't need to see to know the bad guys were being slowed. He glanced at the LSD to see their four dots at the edge of the line of hostiles still converging, some closer than others but no longer about to cut them off ahead.

John turned, making his way to the back of the line. “Teyla, take the lead!”

She gave him a curt nod, started forward and with a startled, pained cry crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. There was no time to find out what happened; John supported her on one side and Rodney the other.

“Go!” Ronon called, crouching at where the path made a sharp turn. “I'll cover you.”

“We go together!” John called back.

“I'll catch up. Now, go!”

More rock exploded over head and John felt new shallow wounds open up on his face and arms. As much as he hated it, as much as it made his stomach knot until he thought he might be sick, Ronon was right. The enemy was about to surround them; their window of opportunity to get out was now.

They had no choice. Grinding his teeth, John hitched Teyla higher and with Rodney's help carried her out of the two lines of closing hostiles. They took as much of a shortcut as they could, dragging Teyla through narrow holes and narrow passages. John had no idea how long they ran, how far they went, his mind stuck like a skipping record on the image of Ronon surrounded by an onslaught of gunfire, only a blaster between him and whatever those people had in store for them.

Seven years on the run, of never getting caught, of surviving, all about to be blown in a single moment. John couldn't leave him to that. He _wouldn't_ leave him to that.

“In here,” John said, leading them into what looked like the wide mouth of a cave.

“Oh, yes, let's go hide in a cave made of glass. They'll never find us here. Are you kidding!” Rodney snapped.

“Got any better ideas!” John snapped back. But he'd been to this world and explored it just enough to know that the deeper the glass caves and thicker the glass the better they distorted. John found what they needed, a smaller cave within the larger, several feet off the ground. He handed Teyla off to Rodney, then jumped the short distance to the lip of the tunnel, pulled himself inside and let himself slide down the gentle incline. It was deep enough and wide enough to hide in comfortably. With a satisfied nod, John scrunched his body and turned around.

“Help her up, McKay,” John said. Rodney did as told, Teyla reaching up for John to grab both her hands and pull her inside, then he squeezed around her and reached for Rodney, pulling him after.

“Where're you hurt?” John asked, turning back to Teyla.

Teyla reached for her ankle, wincing. “Here. I believe it was just a graze. There was not enough blood to leave a trail.”

John, studying the wound as much as he could with Teyla's boot still on, grimaced. “Yeah but it's right over the ankle bone. Rodney, help her. I'm going back.”

“Going back!” Rodney yelped even as he squeezed past John while John squeezed past him. “Are you nuts! The guy survived seven years on the run. I'm sure he's fine and is probably finding his way to us now.”

“Or still pinned down. I'm not leaving him, McKay, we don't...”

“Yes, yes, we don't leave anyone behind. But--”

“I don't have time to argue!” John snarled, and dropped from the cave. “Stay here, stay down, wait for me to contact you. Barring that, wait for Atlantis to contact you. But whatever you do, _don't leave_.”

John took off back up the cave before Rodney had a chance to argue. This was even worse, leaving two more people behind, another who might still be pinned down or who might not be, hopefully the latter because he'd gotten clear and was now looking for the team. The difference was, Rodney and Teyla were safe, the mini-tunnel deep enough and glass thick enough to make them difficult to find. Maybe it wasn't a permanent solution, but it would buy Rodney and Teyla time.

And maybe Rodney was right. Maybe going back was a bad idea. Maybe John was underestimating Ronon's survival after all. But the bitch about guilt was that it refused to let him take any chances. John was the one who'd brought Ronon here, on what should have been a cake walk - ripped him from his taste of a life where he didn't have to run and landed him right smack in the middle of a life-or-death battle.

It wasn't about what Ronon was capable of. Hell yeah the guy could handle himself on his own, but he shouldn't _have_ to.

John raced from the cave, straining his ears for the rapid pop of gun fire and whine of blaster fire. He thought he could hear it far enough away to be a distant crack, but sporadic, like hunters shooting at a buck moving too fast to get a good aim. Good. It meant that not only was Ronon still alive, he was no longer pinned down.

It didn't mean he wasn't wounded.

John followed the exchange as best he could, but it was all over the place, stopping and starting with human voices shouting in between. John ducked around a bend, only to double back and head left when the gunfire seemed to sound behind him. Turn after turn, sometimes cutting through tunnels and holes in the wall, the gunfire everywhere and nowhere. This place was officially a maze and there was no tape to guide him save for the green that would lead to a way out.

John considered following that tape and making it back to the gate to call in reinforcements when something fast and dark darted out from around a niche. John had only enough time to see a P-90 butt swinging his way, then there was pain, then nothing.

\--------------------

Several not-so-gentle slaps to the face forced John back to awareness. It was a slow process, the darkness of unconsciousness vanishing quickly leaving in its place a blur of whirling shapes and color with muffled voices on the side.

“I think he's waking up.”

That John didn't recognize the closest voice sent adrenaline ripping through his body, putting focus to the blur. But instability stuck around, giving everything and everyone a twin trying to phase in and out of each other.

John moaned. He hadn't meant to, but his head hurt like a bitch, his stomach protesting in empathy, and the complete lack of familiarity with his surroundings wasn't helping. It looked like he was in a room made of cloth, a large tent cluttered with belongings: boxes, clothes, blankets, packs, weapons, even fold-away tables, but none of it Earth-made. It was like he'd landed in another base-camp, a rival to their camp looking to take over and claim whatever goodies this planet had to offer. His trepidation doubled over into panic when his eyes landed on what looked like a tray of surgical instruments. It tripled when he realized he was lying stomach down on a table, arms and legs strapped in place.

“Good,” said a female voice to his right. “Prep him.”

Another someone moved closer to his left, and before John could move to get a look at him, two large hands clamped over his head holding it still.

The owner of the female voice positioned herself in John's line of sight. She looked average height, possibly taller than Teyla but not by much. She was dressed for survival, coat, pants and shirt of a heavy, coarse looking material made to withstand just about anything, all of it various shades of brown, beige and even olive green meant to blend into Earth-like surroundings. Her auburn hair, though pulled into a pony tail, was in frizzy disarray, her face smudged with dirt and blood, and even standing three feet away John could smell that it had been a while since she'd last had a bath. In one hand, she held a hand-gun, bulky like a Genii gun but smaller. In the other, an Earth-made radio.

John was so distracted by the Lantean radio in non-Lantean hands that he yelped with the cold blade of a scalpel slid dangerously close to his skin. He was practically strangled when the blade cut through the material of his shirt, just enough to expose his upper back where spine met neck-bone.

“Hey, wait,” John panted, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it vibrating the table. “Hold up. What are you doing? What the hell is going on?”

“Hurry,” the woman said, harried and ignoring John like he was a piece of tech they were in a rush to rewire.

“Whoa, wait, hold on! Can't we talk about this? What the hell do you people want--” He sucked in a ragged breath when the blade finally met skin. He could feel its acidic bite slide over the thick knob of backbone at the peak of his spine, feel hot blood lick around his neck before soaking into his neck line.

“Damn it stop! _Stop!_ ” John cried out before his words were drowned in guttural defiance against the pain.

But the incision had nothing on what he saw one of the “medics” pull from a little glass box using a pair of forceps.

A worm, under two centimeters long, covered in tiny little spines and wriggling in desperation. John's eyes bulged.

“Oh you've gotta be kidding me,” he croaked. He squirmed pointlessly, but his body didn't care. It wanted to get away and it wanted to get away _now_.

The forceps with its nightmarish cargo vanishing out of sight made John struggle harder, and when he felt the wriggling _inside the wound_ it amazed him that he didn't scream. He wanted to, tried to, but his lungs had locked up. The worm was inside him. It was crawling under his skin, shredding the vessels and muscles with its little spikes. He could feel it. Oh, crap, _he could feel it_.

“Close it up,” the woman said. They might have been suturing the wound, might have been bandaging it up; John didn't know because all he could feel was that _thing_ making its new home inside his body. He was going to puke, but couldn't with his heart currently pounding in his throat.

Then someone slapped the back of his head. “Breathe!” And John took an involuntary and shuddering gasp.

John's head was unstrapped, though right now John couldn't bring himself to move even if he wanted to. The worm seemed to have found itself a nice comfortable spot to settle somewhere at the base of John's skull.

The woman crouched, putting her at eye level.

“Relax, the worm isn't going to kill you,” she said, like she was relaying instructions rather than comfort, and time was of the essence. “Once you tell us what we need to know we'll get rid of it. Where is your village?”

John blinked. “Huh?”

“Your village, town, city. The place we found was little more than a hunting camp. Where are your people located?”

John took an unsteady breath, clearing his head and reining in his nerves, much easier now that the worm had stopped moving.

“Not even going to exchange names, first?” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Mine's John. What's yours?”

“Where are your people?”

“You know, it's impolite not tell someone your name when they just told you theirs.”

“Where are your people?”

“It's also impolite to shoot first, ask questions later and put alien worms in people's _backs_.”

“Where are your people?”

“This your way of making polite conversation? Because it sucks.”

The woman, thank goodness, stopped her impression of a broken record. Instead, she sat back on her haunches, blowing air through her nose as her eyes tracked upward to the wanna-be surgeons standing out of sight. One of those surgeons finally made an appearance, a young guy that barely looked out of his twenties. He knelt in front of John and attacked both pupils with a flashlight.

“Still reactive but showing signs of sluggish dilation,” he said. “It's working, just slowly, keep at it.”

“Mind telling me what's working?” John asked, though he already had a pretty good idea. The only sign that he'd had a worm dropped into his neck was the burn of the sutured-bandaged-whatever wound in his neck. Whatever the worm's purpose, it was happening now.

“Where are your people?” the woman asked again.

John sighed, breaths still unsteady. “Look, lady, I have no idea what you're talking about. You took our people. Speaking of which, where the hell are you keeping them?”

The woman's brow creased in confusion. “The ones from the hunting camp escaped us.” At last, acknowledgment, even if it did spawn more questions than answers. “We need to know the location of your main habitation. Your village or town.”

“Why, so you can attack it, too?” John said. The woman's silence was answer enough. Rolling his eyes – which he really shouldn't have done, making the world spin again – John said coolly, “Lady, if you're looking to dominate some locals then you're on the wrong planet. There is no village. The only people are the ones in that camp. It's not a hunting camp or whatever; it's an outpost. We're explorers, scientists. We go to different worlds, check out their plants and minerals, maybe make friends with the locals but that's it. This planet isn't where we live; it's what we're studying.”

This only deepened the furrows in the woman's brow. “You're lying,” she said, but not accusatory. If John didn't know any better he could have sworn she was _asking_ him if he was lying.

“No,” he said carefully. “I'm not. Don't you think reinforcements would have arrived by now if I was lying?”

The woman said nothing, staring at him long and hard the way McKay might when waiting for his laptop to cough up results. The moment of silence woke John to the fact that he was starting to feel a little off – dizzier, his ears starting to ache, his eyes blurring in and out of focus, his heart beating faster and his skin going clammy. And as much as he would have loved to contribute it to his possible concussion, he'd had enough concussions in his lifetime to know that this was something more, something that was growing exponentially worse.

John licked his suddenly dry lips. It was getting harder to think.

“Where are your people?” the woman asked.

“Told you,” John said. “On another world.”

“Which world?”

John snorted. “Like I'm telling you that.”

The woman glowered. “ _Which_ world?”

“Planet Kiss-My-Ass,” John said, and chuckled. He was captured, there was a worm in his neck doing who the hell knew what to his system, and he was laughing. Why the hell was he laughing?

“Okay, then,” the woman said tightly. “How about this. If this really is an expedition, did you just arrive or have you been here for some time? Do you know how to survive on this planet?”

“Been here for a while,” John said, starting to slur. “Couple of weeks. Pretty easy just... just stick to the glass rocks. Predators don't like the glass rocks.” There, he told her something. Maybe now she would leave him alone, because the “something more” was starting to feel a lot like the worst flu he'd ever had coupled with that time he'd gotten a bad case of swimmer's ear. The room was trying to phase into doubles again. That couldn't be good.

The woman opened her mouth, taking a breath to say more, when she froze. In that moment of silence John heard a crackling noise like a radio, only distant and muffled. The woman scrabbled at the ragged pocket of her coat until she produced a second radio, this one boxier with a circle for an antenna.

“Say again?” she said into it.

“Jayphen, Sec and Liel haven't reported in and we're unable to locate them,” was the breathless response. “Kala, it's getting dark--”

“Alem, calm down,” the woman – Kala – said without a lick of that calm she was demanding from her men. A look of dawning realization drained the color from her face. “They had the south end of the camp, near the rocks, right?”

“Yeah, yeah they did.”

Kala hissed a word too biting to be anything other than a curse. “You,” she said with a stab of her rigid finger at whoever was standing outside of John's sight. “And you. Stay here. Leyle, Kess, Jome, come with me.”

Booted feet stomped like a mini stampede from the tent on the trail of Kala demanding ten at the south end. The camp had been breached. John wanted to tell them to cry him a river, because that's what they get for opting for hostile rather than polite, but the thought alone of mouthing off felt like it would take more energy than he had. Right now, he was just glad they were gone, because there was a pain in his head like a rail spike being driven into his skull and it was spreading into his ears. Being able to focus was getting difficult, not just mentally but visually, the room blurring in and out. Every sound, every minor move he made even if it was just a twitch of his head brought on an onslaught of nausea and dizziness that would have floored him in an instant had he been standing. The more Kala planned to grill him, the harder it would be not to say something him, his team and probably the rest of Atlantis would end up regretting.

The pain reached his ears, like a needle to the ear drum. John hissed through gritted teeth. Crap, what the hell was this?

“He's feeling it,” said Guard One.

Guard Two snorted. “Know what that is? That's the Salek worm trying to make you its dinner. You can only find them on Fraxis. Dangerous world, Fraxis. Good place to hide from the Wraith, if you're that desperate. We're the only people to have survived it and barely. The Salek's toxin isn't powerful enough to kill you but it is powerful enough to weaken you for something else to do the job. Some predator takes you down while you're stumbling around, and the Salek eats whatever's left.”

Shifting, rustling cloth, stomping and, suddenly, one of John's guards was within sight, tall, broad build, dark hair and beard – nothing even remotely remarkable and mostly a blur, but his smile made John nervous.

“But the interesting thing,” the man said with the deep voice of Guard One. He had a finger raised as though making a point. “The interesting thing is that the predator knows not to eat where the worm is hiding, saving a nice little chunk for old wormy to gobble up later. We guess the beasts must smell it or something, because the worm always remains, or we wouldn't have caught your little friend currently filling your head with poison.”

“Wait 'til Kala gets back,” said Guard Two. “Doesn't matter what you do, you won't be able to shut up. The Salek makes you soft in the... Who the hell are you!”

Before John had a chance to answer, both men went down with an undignified thump, electric red still flickering around Guard One's body.

“Sheppard,” someone said, someone familiar, and John's eyelids fluttered in confusion.

“Yeah, how do you know who I--” He flinched back when a head buried in dreadlocks appeared in front of his face. He said dumbly, “Oh.”

“You okay?” Ronon said, already unbuckling straps. “You don't look okay.”

“Don't really feel okay, either,” John slurred. He moved his arms that felt like several pounds of wet sandbag into position for a push up, but getting into position was all he seemed capable up. “Little help... would be nice.”

More like a lot of help, with Ronon doing most of the lifting then supporting as John forced his way to his unsteady feet. It was hell. It was hell within hell, his brain sloshing around in his skull and his vision sloshing around his eye sockets. John clung to Ronon not giving a damn how it looked, because it was either cling or fall on his face and at least clinging didn't come with any further injuries.

“What the hell did they do to you?” Ronon growled, and John chuckled breathlessly. Ronon had used an Earth swear. It was funny.

“Long story, buddy,” John said, giving Ronon a pat on the chest with his free hand. “Long and scary story. Tell it to you if we live.”

“I'm holding you to that,” Ronon said. He helped (more like dragged) John toward the tent flap.

John chuffed. “You're already... holding me.” Then chuffed some more and winced, sucking in a breath that sounded uncomfortably like a whimper.

They crouched by the flap – Ronon crouched, John tried very hard not to fall on his ass - and peered through the narrow gap. John narrowed his eyes at what should have been daytime but was instead full blown twilight going to dark.

“How the hell long was I here?”

“A while. Long story. Tell you if we live.”

“Bastard.”

Ronon grinned, an honest to goodness grin.

“Okay, looks like only two guards. On the count of three, we go out blasting. One, two...”

A sudden burst of gunfire and screaming sent two guards running out of sight behind the tent, leaving the way free.

John blinked. “Or we wait 'til they leave.”

“I don't like this,” Ronon said, but didn't allow John the chance to ask why. Ronon burst out of the tent, pulling John with him.

There came moments in life when looking a gift horse in the mouth might not be a bad idea, moments in which that awesome distraction really was too good to be true. The camp was in chaos, men and women scattering like cockroaches under a light, not giving a damn about the escaped prisoner and the guy helping him out, and for good reason. Night was here; the predators had come out to play. The camp was under attack and anything not eight feet high with six skeletal limbs and bad-ass claws was fair game.

Adrenaline did wonders for a toxin-addled brain, pushing back the pain and clearing John's senses. He was able to focus a little better, hear a little better and mostly ignore the way the ground tried to drop out from under him. He could see the creatures, corpse-white in the growing darkness, like dingoes without ears or discernible eye sockets. Whatever they hunted with worked better than any visible appendage, letting them zero in on their prey with unfailing accuracy.

Ronon switched his weapon from stun to kill and blasted two holes into the creature barreling toward them.

“To the rocks!” John gasped. “We gotta get to the rocks!” They veered south, and the more they ran, the harder John's heart hammered pushing blood and adrenaline through his body, the better he was able to pump his legs and keep up.

But the pale bastards were everywhere. Two came at them from either side. Ronon took them down fast and easy. Then an impact from behind knocked them apart. John slammed shoulder first into the ground and went rolling down an incline. He landed on his back, only to roll onto his stomach and puke as the world not only lost focus for good but would _not stop spinning_.

“Son of a bitch!” John tried to growl but, once again, ended up with a whimper. Saying his head and ears hurt was putting it mildly. This was a flu and ear infection and sinus infection all having a love child together. He tried to stand, but the dizziness and pain got the way and shoved him back to the ground. Crawling it was, then, the loss of focus not so bad that he couldn't see the watery shimmer of glassy rocks under the fading sky about twenty feet away. Or was it thirty feet? Okay, so he couldn't judge distance –

Just like he couldn't judge what was an illusion of blurred vertigo and what was really moving.

John listened instead. He could hear, subdued by the distance, the screams of dying people and hunting animals. Then he heard breathing, and the crunch of white grass.

 _Ronon?_. He opened his mouth, about to call out, then snapped it shut. If those things really were blind, that meant they relied on sound, making any kind of noise a very bad idea.

The breathing and grass-crunching came closer. Every muscle in John's body locked, holding him as still as a body could get. The owner of the breathing moved within sight across John's path, only eight feet away, probably more, most likely less. It was too tall and too pale to be Ronon.

John held his breath.

The creature scuttled forward like something out of an HP Lovecraft story. It moved haltingly as though unsure, but its direction was pretty damn clear – it was heading right for John.

 _Go away. Nothing to hear here. Nothing at all. Go away..._

The creature stopped, hissed, scuttled forward, stopped and hissed again. It was five feet from John, four, three. At two feet it stopped, its blurry head tilting to one side.

 _Nothing here. Just a rock. Go away, go away, go away..._

It didn't go away. It tilted its head to the other side, like it was considering. Then it reared up, spreading all four of its forward limbs, claws out, mouth full of teeth wide open in a screech that was a bullet through the ear drum. John couldn't stop himself from covering his ears and screaming with it. The pain of that noise was too much, going straight to his brain and expanding until his skull felt ready to explode.

Then the shrieking stopped. The pain ebbed enough for John to open his eyes and see the creature dead on the ground, a hole blasted in its chest.

A heavy hand landed on John's back. He jumped with an unmanly yelp.

“Easy, Sheppard. Just me,” Ronon said, infuriatingly calm.

“About damn time,” John panted, his heart refusing to slow down.

Ronon shrugged. “Was a little busy. Come on.” He took John by the arm. “Let's go.” And without warning hauled John to his feet. It was a good thing Ronon's grip was so strong or John would have crumpled back to the ground. The world was still spinning, the pain still throbbing even if it wasn't crippling any more, and he doubled over puking up bile and spit. Once again, he was forced to cling to Ronon as they made their way to the rocks.

The six-legged hell hounds were shrieking closer behind them.

“Move it!” John called out, easier said than done for him. The pain and dizziness had reached the point of no return and his legs weren't going to take it anymore. Ronon dragged him the rest of the way, literally, the hot breath of the hell hounds right on their necks. John pictured a gaping mouth and reaching forelimbs, and it shot enough adrenaline into his legs to help push for that final dive through the entrance of the Maze.

Ronon landed on his feet, John not so much with Ronon holding him halfway up and hauling him deeper into the maze. It wasn't until the angry shrieks of defeat were just another noise in the background that they stopped, Ronon holding John up against the smooth wall of glass to keep him steady as they caught their breath.

“Okay,” Ronon panted. “We're alive. What the hell is wrong with you?”

John took a moment to swallow back the burn of bile in his throat before answering - damn, stupid vertigo. “”Worm,” he gasped out. “They put some kind of... worm-thing in me. Messes up your head. Supposed to make you talk... oh, crap!” The bile won; John doubled up and dry heaved.

Ronon helped lower John gently to the ground. “Better?”

“A little,” John said, and it wasn't a lie. The less he moved and the lower to the ground he was, the less his stomach bucked. It was many kinds of messed up. A six-foot pilot who got vertigo just from standing up. That damn worm was a tenth level bastard.

“Your... turn...” John said between coughs that made his head spin faster.

“Huh?” Ronon said, brow furrowed. “Oh, yeah. Found Sergeant Telby.”

John snapped his head up so fast the world not only spun but tilted, making his body tilt with it. Ronon caught and righted him.

“Turns out they were ambushed. Barely escaped. He took out the guards near the maze, giving me the distraction needed so I could slip in.”

“Where is he now?”

Ronon arched his thumb over his shoulder. “Probably went back to where the others were hiding. He feels bad about not responding to your call but--”

John nodded, squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed – crap, he hated this. “I know. The hostiles managed to get hold of a couple of our radios. We're compromised.”

Ronon nodded. “Telby's team got separated, had to fight their way back to each other. Most of 'em either lost their radios or ended up breaking them in the fight. By the time they got a working one, they were too late to warn us.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “What do these guys want?”

“They wanted to know how to survive here,” John said. “I'm thinking a dispossessed bunch, probably run off their world by the Wraith, or planet hoppers trying to avoid the Wraith.” He winced, and not because of the headache from hell. “Damn it, I told them about the maze! We’re not only compromised; we're stuck here. Those bastards are going to be all over the place looking for us.” He slammed the meat of his fist into the wall behind him. “Damn it!”

“Don't worry about it,” Ronon said in that neutral tone of his that gave nothing away. He took John by one arm and, slowly, eased him back to his feet, keeping a tight hold on him until he was as steady as he was going to get. “We need to find Teyla and McKay. Think you can find them again?”

John snorted, wincing when it spiked the pain. “Ronon, buddy, I can't even see straight.” But he took a deep breath, slow and long, closed his eyes and forced his throbbing brain to think. “We headed north from the base camp – our base camp. We kept in a straight line best as possible so... our path was mostly unmarked.”

“We're at a northern entrance,” Ronon said.

“Yeah,” John said, knowing better than to nod. “Therefore, obviously, we need to start heading south and,” he sighed, “hope I spot something familiar.” Because radio contact asking for directions was so far out of the question he shouldn't have even considered it. But he had to cut himself some slack for that one. His brain was turning into mush, after all.

Ronon gathered John against him to lean on as they followed their current trail. It was one more slice of hell for John, any adrenaline still pumping through him doing squat against the pain, vertigo and nausea. His stomach kept rebelling, but so far past the point of bringing anything up that John told Ronon to keep going no matter how badly John gagged.

It was also getting harder to see, the world growing more blurred than focused. It was hard to think, his skull not only cracking but filling with wet cotton.

“I hear something,” Ronon said. “Think you can stand if you lean against the wall?”

“One way... to find out,” John panted, though a part of him wasn't looking forward to the result. But it was with mild and short-lived surprise that John remained upright propped against the wall. He kept going, knowing Ronon would keep him covered.

“Just an animal... no, wait, Sheppard,” Ronon said. A heavy hand landed on John's shoulder and he jumped, arm swinging drunkenly in defense. Ronon caught it easily and lowered it back to John's side. “You were about to go east. This way.” And with a gentle shove Ronon propelled John in the right direction.

If Rodney were here, he would be bitching about how this was nothing more than a lesson in futility. And it probably was. John's eyesight was not only growing worse, but the moon had risen, spilling its silver light onto the maze in a dazzling display of refracted and reflected light. At any other time, it would have been beautiful. To John, it was a poker dipped in dry ice to the retina and into the brain. A gentle turn brought them to a wall with twice the refraction, twice the dazzle, and John cried out in pain.

“Sheppard?” Ronon hissed, warning and concern packed into that one word. John nodded carefully. He might be going blind, but he could still hear, and what he heard was the squeak and patter of boots on glass rocks possibly heading their way.

“This isn't working,” John said. He hated himself for saying it. He wasn't a quitter, and sure as hell wasn't a pessimist, but he couldn't see, couldn't think and it was only a matter of time before the enemy found them.

Or, worse, found them right when they found Teyla and Rodney.

“This way,” was all Ronon said, tugging John by the arm away from the wall. John let him lead, keeping his eyes closed to spare him any more surprises. It was terrifying, this level of weakness, Ronon going from leading to carrying John when John's legs refused to move faster (and, really, it was a miracle John was even standing). He was blind, weak, weaponless, his people scattered and trapped and he and Ronon about to be trapped along with them.

 _No_ , John thought, gritting his teeth to hold in a growl of defiance. No way. There's gotta be a way. Think, damn it, think!. But the wet wool in his head wouldn't let him. Damn, stupid worm. If they got the little bastard out – when they got it out – he was plucking its spines off one by one.

John's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden halt in their progress. John felt himself leaned against the wall, then the pressure of Ronon's arm around his ribs vanished. Fear ripped through John like a flash flood.

“Ronon?”

“Here. Checking something out.” His voice sounded muffled. A few minutes later, John heard the rustle of cloth. “Found a cave,” Ronon said, and his hand returned to John's arm, guiding him up into a hole barely big enough for them to crawl through without scraping their spines. But it was deep, deep enough to distort them and make them difficult to find. John eased back against the curve of the wall and, tentatively, opened his eyes. The dazzle wasn't so bad, uncomfortable but tolerable and giving them enough light to see each other.

John sighed in relief. At least now he knew why the not-blind-after-all hell hounds hated this place.

“Now what,” Ronon said with a tightness that announced loud and clear how unhappy he was. He had a death-grip on his blaster, his fingers twitching with the need to do something other than sit around and wait out the storm. “Hide here 'til they go away?”

“I'm thinking,” John rasped. He swallowed, all the dry heaves having turned his throat to raw meat.

“And while you're thinking, we're wasting time.” Ronon scooted closer. “Look, these people are trapped just like us. Let me out there and I can hunt them down one by one.”

John shook his head. “No. There's gotta be a better way.”

“There isn't. This is the only way. I can do this, Sheppard. I've done it before.”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn't have to,” John snapped. “You're not on the run anymore, Ronon. You shouldn't have to survive every single damn second of your life.”

Ronon frowned, more like scowled, as though John had just insulted his honor.

John exhaled sharply. He was hurting too much to have to put up with this crap. “Look, Ronon, you're with us, now. No more having to survive alone, no more having to fight alone. We've got this saying – two heads are better than one. Rodney might argue otherwise but, personally, I like that saying. I don't doubt what you're capable of, big guy, I don't. But if there's a way to end this without forcing you to be a one man army then I'd really like to find out what that way is. If we can't think of anything...” John pressed his lips, unable to finish the sentence. But if there was no other choice, if his suffocating brain couldn't cough up an alternative...

John didn't want to think about it, but neither did he have a choice.

Ronon stared at him grimly. Neither did he push the matter.

“Okay,” John said. “So what do we know? These guys are trapped here like us. We know this world better than they do--”

“They have our radios,” Ronon said, and hearing him say “our” sparked a little hope in John. Crap, he was pathetic when sick.

“Atlantis should have contacted us by now--” And like having spoken the magic words, there was a crackling coming from Ronon's pocket, followed by what sounded like Weir's voice. Ronon pulled the radio John had given him from his coat and handed it over.

Weir said again, “Colonel Sheppard, do you copy?”

“Copy,” John replied.

Then, he smiled. He had an idea.

“Copy, Atlantis,” he said again. “I'm afraid we've got a situation, here. A code ten. I repeat, a code ten.” He waited a beat.

“Copy, John. Code ten,” Elizabeth said in that level and controlled way of hers that said she understood loud and clear.

“Yeah, I think we're going to need a little back up here. You know, the _stealthier_ the better. I'd say about three should do it. It's pretty dark so you'll come in _cloaked_. Meet me at base camp, center of the maze. I'll meet you there. I repeat, I'll meet you there. Though you'd better hurry. I got separated from the others so I'll be on my own. And watch out for the wildlife, it's pretty nasty.”

“Stealth, cloaked – copy that,” Weir said, with what John thought sounded like a touch of amusement. “ETA twenty minutes. Weir out.”

Not seconds after the radio went silent and a confused Ronon opened his mouth to speak, the radio crackled again.

“Sheppard are you insane!” bellowed Rodney.

“More like desperate,” John said. “McKay, stay off the line. Teyla, if you're hearing this, please explain it to him. Sheppard out.”

“Um,” Ronon said. “What?”

And John would have chuckled if he knew it wouldn't have hurt so much. “Code ten means our communications have been compromised.”

“Okay?”

“Which means the bad guys will have been listening. Which _means_ they think I'm heading back to base camp.”

“Not by yourself,” Ronon said with stubborn resolve.

“I'm not going to base camp, Ronon,” John said tiredly. “I just need the bad guys to think I am so that they'll gather there and be all nice and rounded up when the jumpers arrive.”

At Ronon's perpetual confusion, John twirled his hand. “Stealth? Cloak? You know, like a jumper?”

Finally, Ronon's brow lifted, and he grinned. “Good one.”

John shifted, getting more comfortable to wait out the next ten minutes. “Told you there was a better way.”

\-------------------------

Score one for half-assed plans on the fly; John's plan worked. Three jumpers with two teams each had the base camp surrounded by the time the hostiles arrived - technically it only took ten minutes to gear up and arrive to the maze by jumper. The way back to base camp was clear, and John and Ronon were able to take their time, not that it made much of a difference to the way John was feeling. It didn't matter how slow John moved, each footstep sent pain shimmying from his skull down his spine, and he was dry heaving what felt like every two minutes.

Never had lying down on a jumper bench felt so good. John was more than happy to let Lorne take over the clean up, the hostiles restrained with zip ties, lined up on their knees and guarded at P-90 point, and Telby and his team of fellow rock geeks looking contrite while packing up camp. Rodney and Teyla, with Teyla hindered by her injury, arrived at about the same time John did, and now convalesced on the opposite bench as the field medic wrapped her ankle.

“How was I supposed to know we had code words?” Rodney complained. “When the hell did we get code words, anyway?”

“Your people have always had them, Rodney,” Teyla said. “Do you not remember the lecture we all attended? They even handed out booklets letting us know what all the codes were.”

Rodney fidgeted. “They gave us a lot of booklets. How was I supposed to know which ones mattered?”

“They all mattered, Rodney,” Teyla said patiently. She looked to John. “How are you feeling?”

“Like one hundred miles of bad road,” John said. He sucked in a hissing breath. “Kay. No talking. Hurts.”

It wasn't long before their jumper departed to drop the injured and ill off at the infirmary. Ronon wasn't with them, having stayed behind to help, and John in too much pain to so much as wonder if it was a good idea. Ronon was more than capable, but he'd been looking decidedly pissed, and John had no idea if Ronon's vindictive streak was reserved only for Wraith or included hostile humans.

One way or another, John was going to get to know the guy, whatever it took.

That is, if Ronon decided to stick around.

John's concerns were interrupted by the arrival of a gurney. Whatever the worm was doing to him, it had stepped up its efforts. Moving from the bench to the gurney provoked another round of dry heaves, then another and another during their trip to the infirmary. The pain in his head and ears had grown from sporadically intolerable to completely intolerable, and no matter how he tried to fight it, groan after whimper after groan escaped his throat. There were test, lots of tests, lots of blood taking and being moved from machine to machine – X-rays, Ancient scanner, Ancient scanner again, more blood drawn, so much moving, so much more pain and he just wanted it to stop, stop, _stop_!

Somewhere within the testing and the moving, Ronon showed up, nothing more than a blur of tans and browns but his voice unmistakable. But that was all he was, a voice, his words muffled by John's suddenly clogged ears. John was pretty sure he asked Ronon to stun him. Or maybe kill him.

Then Ronon vanished and the blue blur that was Carson took his place. Words were said, then a mask placed over John's face and darkness crept over his vision – about damn time.

When John woke up, he could hear again. That was the first of the five senses to return – smell a given since unlike the rest of him it hadn't been affected. He heard the beeping of a monitor and his own breathing. Next came feeling – more like a realization of it – the general aches mostly smothered by medication, and an itchy soreness at the back of his neck. Next would be sight. John forced his heavy eyelids to blink open. The world was still a blur.

John blinked again.

Still a blur. His heart rate jumped and the monitor jumped with it. He blinked again and again, but everything was still a blur, still tilting and spinning to piss off his stomach.

“What...th' hell?”

“John?” Teyla, that was Teyla, a human-shaped fuzzy blob materializing next to his bed.

“Teyla, I can't see. I-- what the hell?”

“John, easy. It is all right.”

“The worm...”

“Dr. Beckett was able to remove the worm successfully. But the creature secreted much toxin into your body. He believes that it will take some time to metabolize.”

“And if it doesn't? If this is permanent?” John didn't want to think about it, but that was the problem with not thinking about something. The more you tried not to think, the more you did, like being told not to picture an elephant only to have the image of elephants stuck in your head the rest of the day.

If this didn't get better, if the toxin had messed him up, they would ship him back. He would never be able to fly again.

John's heart rate increased speed, his breathing with it until he started feeling light-headed and sick.

“John,” Teyla said, firm but quickly. “You must calm down. Doctor Beckett promises it is not permanent. They were able to research the creature using information discovered in the Ancient database, so I promise you that it is not permanent.”

John closed his eyes, breathed in, breathed out and slowly found his calm.

“Sorry,” he said, feeling the heat of a blush leak into his cheeks. He opened his eyes and looked up at blurry Teyla. “I don't know why I did that.”

Teyla took his hand and patted it. He didn't have to see it to know she was giving him a reassuring smile. “You were in terrible pain and just woke up from having a parasite removed. It is to be expected. I would have reacted no differently.”

John felt his tension melt from his body, taking his rapid heart rate with it. Until his eyes tracked the room, landing on a familiar fuzzy shape.

“Ronon?”

“Sheppard.”

John's heart rate kicked up again. But before anything could be said, Carson arrived, shooing off both Ronon and Teyla like children who were always underfoot.

“Colonel, lad,” Beckett said chipperly. “Glad to have you with us. How do you feel?”

“Like crawling into a hole.”

“Eh?”

John slumped. “Nothing.”

\----------------------

John refused to be a defeatist. There was a reason he always told Rodney to stay positive, and that was because you weren't beat until you were dead. But it was hard not to feel a tad uneasy over what must be going through Ronon's head. The two days it took John to metabolize the toxin, Ronon had been a no show. No big deal – they were both still relative strangers to each other and a lengthy visit would probably be more awkward than helpful.

But John needed to talk to Ronon, to know where he stood on sticking around. The mission had been Fubar well beyond the spontaneous arrival of bad guys, John had been captured, had given away a vital piece of information, had slowed Ronon down, kept him from doing his thing and to top it all off, Ronon had been a witness to his little post anesthesia breakdown.

John couldn't help being nervous. He had talked to Teyla about it but in typical Teyla fashion, she had answered him with reassurances. For once, they didn't work. She, too, didn't know much about Ronon and for all they knew his culture frowned on team leaders who had freak-outs. Some societies were fickle like that. John knew; teams had been booted off worlds for less.

John also wondered if he'd waited too long to talk to Ronon, but that couldn't be helped. He'd been mostly out of it for those two days, and had no intentions of facing Ronon until he could look at him in detail. John was still a little nearsighted, still prone to mild bouts of dizziness, but it would have to do.

He would've liked even more to be able to talk to Ronon away from an infirmary setting, but Carson wouldn't have it, and John couldn't wait any more. It was with much good-natured arguing that Carson finally brought him a radio.

John was just about to activate it when Ronon walked in.

“Oh,” John said, hand frozen in mid raise. He quickly dropped it back to his lap. “Hey, I was just about to call you.”

“Oh,” Ronon said, and for a moment John thought he looked a little on the startled side. Then Ronon shrugged, and stood there, hands clasped in front, waiting for John to say his peace first. “Okay.”

“Well, doesn't mean you can't go first,” John said.

“It can wait,” Ronon replied.

“I was just going to ask if... well... about... if...” John gestured vaguely. “If you've thought any more about sticking around...?”

Ronon's brow puckered. “I have been sticking around.”

“I meant permanently.”

Again, Ronon shrugged (and to be honest, John was getting a little tired of it). “I haven't left yet.”

“So, what, that means you do want to stick around?” Crap, it was no wonder he couldn't get to know Ronon. Talking to the guy was next to impossible.

Another shrug. “Why not? You guys fight the Wraith, I want to help. That is, you know, if you still want me around.”

John's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Hell yeah we want you around. You didn't notice?”

“Notice?”

Sighing, John shook his head. “Never mind. Yes, we definitely want you around. I – we – just weren't sure if, you know,” John swept his hand at him, “if you wanted to stick around. I mean, it's gotta be pretty different from what you're used to.”

“It is,” Ronon admitted. “Your marines need better hand-to-hand skills. But... I don't think you guys are all that different from us. What you did on that planet, to catch those people, that was smart. On my world, we were always taught that we're more than just muscle and bone.” He chuffed. “Our combat teacher always told us we've got heads so we'd better use them for more than just head-butting.”

John nodded sagely. “Wise teacher. Easier to make a plan than systematically hunt bad guys down one by one, right?”

And yet another shrug. “I guess.”

“You guess,” John scoffed, rolling his eyes, but Ronon spotted the ribbing and smiled a small smile.

“So what did you need?” John asked.

“Oh, yeah. That computer game thing?” Ronon cleared his throat, shifting his feet like a kid about to ask his parents for something big. “Can I play it again?”

John narrowed his eyes. “You aren't asking me now because I'm still not one-hundred percent and you think it'll make it easier to beat me, are you?”

And yet _another_ shrug so full of pure, saccharine, over-the-top innocence John wondered why Ronon even bothered to try. “Course not.” Then he smiled, saccharine and not even trying.

“Then you're in for a major disappointment,” John said, pulling the laptop Rodney had brought him from off the side table. Ronon, smiling like a kid getting his way, pulled another laptop from within his coat – borrowed or otherwise John would worry about later. Right now, it was on.

The end


End file.
